


and here I just want to stay

by ivorykeys09



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 3x09, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7579189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorykeys09/pseuds/ivorykeys09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing he remembers is being a very much single, 29-year-old man on top of a snowy mountain, and now his daughter is pulling him through a house that he is increasingly suspecting is his own.</p><p>Alt ending to 3x09, "The Climb."</p>
            </blockquote>





	and here I just want to stay

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me randomly and wouldn't go away, so I brushed off my keyboard and wrote it down. This isn't beta'd (though I proofread multiple times), so all mistakes are my own. Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to DC, the CW, etc. Just not me.

**.**

**.**

A little girl’s voice wakes him.

Which is weird, because he doesn’t know any little girls besides Sara Diggle. And she’s just a baby.

The only thing Oliver _does_ know, as he blinks out of slumber, is this: he’s in the most heavenly bed in the _world_.

Lying on his stomach, he moves his legs and arms around to admire the warm, silky sheets, fluffy pillows, and airy blankets covering him. When did he get this new bedding? Because it’s _superb_. When he came back from the island, the transition from the floor to a real bed was a slow one. He learned how to sleep anywhere—on any _thing_ —and though it’s been three years since he returned, he’s never fully appreciated his bed until now. Because this? This he could sleep on forever.

Little girl forgotten, he shuts his eyes again to avoid looking at the clock and the reality of the day. The League of Assassins can wait. Merlyn can wait. The Green Arrow suit and responsibilities can wait. Everything and everyone can wait.

“Daddy! Wake up!”

The voice again.

 _Huh_ , he thinks. What a weird dream. The fact that it’s even a dream is odd enough, as they’re all too rare these days against the nightmares that dominate his sleep. When his rest isn’t consumed by the island and the League and Russia, it’s filled with predictable things like tropical beaches or beautiful women.

(Or a beautiful wom _an_. Just one. Just her.)

But fatherhood? A little voice calling him “Daddy”? It’s so far from reality—even in the future—he’s never let his dreams take him there.

Shaking a little with nerves, he tries to recall the last thing he remembers. His brain is fuzzy and muddled, but visions of Malcolm come racing back. Malcolm told him something, or... _showed_ him something. Something to do with Thea. And Sara...

A wave of pain rushes through him, sharp and relentless, when he remembers.

The video of Thea killing Sara.

Even though his eyes are closed, he shuts them tighter to block the memories. His throat throbs, suddenly achingly dry, and he struggles to swallow the emotion that threatens to overcome him: despair for his little sister and what her father had put her through, grief for Sara and the fact that she’s really gone, and hatred for Malcolm and everything he’s ruined.

Steadying his breath, he grapples to remember what happened next. It comes back in waves.

He...left. He’d gone to meet Ra’s on Nanda Parbat.

Wait. No... _not_ Nanda Parbat. A neutral site. Somewhere cold and snowy. High enough where the wind gusts felt like whips against his skin.

Was he there with Dig? Or Roy?

His head aches as he concentrates on the spotty memory, and then another wave comes to him again: he was alone. He’d said goodbye to Roy and Dig in the lair; he’d shaken their hands and said goodbye….and then Felicity had walked in. Like a ray of sunshine, she’d walked up to them slowly, looking so beautiful and heartbroken in her bright pink coat. Pain had flashed across her face the second she’d laid eyes on him, understanding the choice he’d made before he even had the chance to explain.

And then he remembers their final words to each other.

 _“But I do know two things. The first is that...whoever I am...I’m someone that will do whatever—_ what _ever—it takes to save my sister.”_

Even now, he can feel her warm skin against his lips from when he’d kissed her forehead.

_“And the second thing?” she’d asked, turning towards him._

_“I love you.”_

If there’s anything he doesn’t regret, it’s saying those words. But... _god,_ the look on her face. He’d do anything to go back to yesterday. To spend one more moment with her.

But Thea…Ra’s…

Did he fall? Was he stabbed?

_Why can’t he remember what happened next?_

He hears another, “Daddy!” followed by the weight of something patting his back.

Wait.

What the _hell_ is happening?

“Waaake up!” the voice calls again, this time a little more impatient.

It’s ridiculous, but he actually pinches his elbow—because this _has_ to be a dream—and is alarmed when he still feels something tap his shoulder.

Gathering courage, he sits up in bed and takes in the scene around him. Immediately he can tell that he’s not on top of the mountain, or in Nanda Parbat, or even at his bedroom in the loft.

It’s far too homey.

The walls are painted a light cream, turned brighter by the morning light filtering through the windows. Pretty paintings adorn one wall, while a dresser sits against another. There are two stylish-but-comfortable chairs perched in front of a mounted TV and a short hallway he assumes leads to adjoining closets and a bathroom. The bed he’s in is huge—king-sized and covered in soft pillows and light blue bedding. The only thing left is the little girl standing right next to the bed, looking up at him with piercing blue eyes.

 _Annoyed_ piercing blue eyes.

The look on her face isn’t fear, which makes him even more confused. She’s not looking at him as if he’s a stranger—she’s looking at him with sheer impatience. Her rosebud lips are pursed in a pout, her little brows are furrowed with annoyance, and her fists are perched on her tiny hips. The whole image is topped off by blonde curly, bedhead-y hair. The sight of how cross she looks at him, this little sprite of a girl, actually makes him crack his first smile since waking.

But who is she?

“What’s your name?” he asks, figuring he has to start somewhere.

The question makes her break into a fit of giggles. “My name’s Rosie! You’re so silly, Daddy,” she admonishes, reaching up to grasp his hand. His rising panic at her answer, at the fact that she called him— _yet again_ —“Daddy,” is stilted by her next action. Right away he learns that she is small but strong, which becomes quite obvious once she tugs on his hand and takes off for the doorway, leaving him no choice but to slip out of bed and follow her.

Oliver feels a mix of fear and relief when he realizes that he’s—thank _god_ —wearing pajamas. Relief because, while he may not be around children that often, he’s pretty sure it’s recommended for a grown man to be wearing them around kids. But however assured he is of wearing clothes is overshadowed, because he usually sleeps either naked or in briefs, and the plaid pajama pants and a gray t-shirt he’s sporting just add to his alarm.

Again, what the _hell_ is going on?

The last thing he remembers is being a very much single, 29-year-old man on top of a snowy mountain, and now his... _daughter_...is pulling him through a house that he is increasingly suspecting is his own.

They walk down a long hallway before reaching the stairs, where Rosie stops so suddenly he nearly runs into her. Looking expectantly up at him, she just raises her arms and says, “Up, please,” and his body must be running without brain function because he picks her up immediately and starts down the steps. He has no idea where he’s going, but he assumes wherever she wanted to go is this way.

Though his mind is spinning, he uses the journey downstairs to survey his surroundings. No one else is here—that much he can surmise by his exceptional Arrowy hearing—so he’s fairly certain no real threat awaits him downstairs other than the truth.

Once they reach the ground level, he, surprisingly, given the situation, feels immediately at ease. Everything is cozy and cheerful. He’s only seen his bedroom, the hallway and, now, kitchen and family room, but he can tell from just this first glance that it’s the home he never had. It’s everything the Queen Manor wasn’t.

Soft, warm colors are used in every fabric, with pops of color sprinkled throughout. There’s fresh flowers in a few vases around the space, a trunk in the corner is filled with what looks to be dress-up costumes, and soft blankets are draped over the back of every couch and chair.

If he woke up in the bed upstairs, and Rosie is calling him “Daddy,” this, he finally accepts, has to be his home.

But does he share it with anyone? Or is it just the two of them?

Who helped him decorate?

What the _fuck_ is going on?

Rosie twists in his arms, giving him no choice but to let her drop to the ground, and takes his hand to lead him further into the kitchen.

She is so _tiny._ That’s all he can think about as he marvels the sight of her. His whole hand literally swallows her’s. Even her little thumb is about the width of his—

His heart slams against his chest.

His _wedding ring._

He’s married?

Knees suddenly weak, he lets go of her hand to grasp the kitchen island and steady his breathing.

How is he married? And, more importantly, to _who?_

“Hey, uh...Rosie?” He cringes at how awkward he sounds. Sara Diggle is just a baby, so he’s had zero experience talking to kids this young since Thea was little. He’s certain it shows.

“Yeah, Daddy?”

(He nearly chokes again. He’ll never get used to hearing that.)

“Where’s your mom?”

“Away,” she says simply, shrugging him off and clearly not worried about the absence of her mother. That puts him slightly at ease, but her answer is still vague enough to pique his curiosity and duplicate his questions. But he swallows them for a few moments to avoid alarming her with his bewilderment.

He watches as she dutifully walks over to the desk in the kitchen, which is piled high with papers and random things scattered across it. The house is so worn in, so _lived in_ , and this desk is no exception. It doesn’t look to serve any purpose beyond being a surface to drop anything and everything. She picks up a little pair of glasses, turns around, and—

The wind gets knocked out of him.

It’s Felicity.

He’s married to Felicity.

He is looking at a mini Felicity. It took the glasses to click everything into place, but they have the same lips and eyes and curls. (Though her hair, he notes in awe, is more _his_ coloring.)

He doesn’t know how he missed it, but now that he knows...Felicity overwhelms him. _They_ overwhelm him. As he looks around the kitchen and family room, they’re everywhere. Walls and surfaces are filled with family photos of years he can’t remember: a wedding portrait sits on their mantle, a baby Rosie on the fridge, vacation photos from around the world hang on the walls.

Even now, as he looks at Rosie dressed in a nightgown covered in pandas, he wonders how he’d missed it. Felicity isn’t physically there but the house is _brimming_ with her.

He doesn’t know how he’s living in the future—or even if this is some sort of alternate reality of some kind—but the fact that he’s married to Felicity, with a child, makes him want to burst out of his skin.

How did it happen?

And why doesn’t he remember any of it?

Rosie breaks him out of his stupor. “I’m hungry, Daddy.”

“Okay,” he answers mechanically. “What would you like?”

She thinks thoughtfully for a few beats, pondering his question very seriously. After a moment she grins. “Pancakes, please!”

Thankful for a task to distract his unraveling mind, he roots through the cabinets for ingredients as Rosie scrambles up onto a stool at the island with a coloring book. “How about...blueberry pancakes?” He doesn’t even know if they have blueberries, or why his stupid brain is complicating this further, but he asks anyway to keep himself from asking anything else.

He glances over at her. Rosie’s coloring so intensely, her little tongue peeks out of her lips.

It’s incredibly cute.

Her marker-holding hand stops moving as she looks up. “No, I’m ‘lergic, ‘member?” she tells him, brow furrowed in confusion and looking so much like Felicity it makes his heart stop.

Fuck. “Oh, right.” He opens another cabinet and spots a Nestle bag. “I meant...chocolate chip pancakes?”

“Yes, please!” she exclaims, way too enthusiastically it actually makes him nervous. Are chocolate chips some type of special treat that she can only have on special occasions? Are they a “no sugar” family? He may not know what the hell is going on, but he doesn’t want to ruin Feli— _their_ —child by breaking a rule.

But if they have chocolate chips in the house, Felicity would have to be fine with it, right?

(As if on cue, a memory hits him out of nowhere: a random night off with OTA—as Felicity liked to refer to her, him, and Dig—at an ice cream parlor. Felicity had ordered mint chocolate chip ice cream with extra chocolate chips _on top_ and he’d fallen a little more in love with her.)

She’d be fine with it, he optimistically assumes, so he forges on to read the boxed pancake directions. Thankfully Rosie’s little eyes don’t continue following his every move, so he feels the pressure ease off a bit. He finishes making the pancakes fairly quickly and successfully, after only burning a few, and feels oddly triumphant when he plates them with some syrup. As walks around the marble island to serve her, the sight of Rosie working so diligently stops him in his tracks.

“How old are you?”

“Free and a half,” she answered confidently, despite her pronunciation, and holds up three fingers.

“Do you have school today?”

She falls into a fit of laughter. “It’s summer, Daddy!”

Great. One less thing to worry about, he thinks, hoping she doesn’t catch his relief. “I know. Just testing you,” he answers, giving her a wink.

...and where did _that_ come from? He slowly notices little things are coming to him naturally, like cutting the pancakes into smaller bites so she doesn’t choke, or tucking her curls behind her ears so they don’t drop in her syrupy plate.

It’s like his body remembers how to be a dad, while his brain is still catching up.

As Rosie quietly eats her breakfast, he uses the opportunity to try to find some answers, and since this is Felicity's house, it doesn’t take him long to find a tablet. It’s covered with a bright pink rubber case with a dog on on the back—clearly Rosie’s—and after asking her to put in her password (a request which earns him a suspicious glare), he takes a seat on the couch and opens the internet.

The date is the first thing that jolts him: July 10th, 2023. Eight years have passed.

He allows himself a moment to let the shock settle in before continuing to CNN, where one of the photo captions catches his attention. _GALLERY: President Hillary Clinton’s final overseas trip to India._

A female president. Cool.

He types Palmer Tech into the search bar and is met with dozens of articles.

_Palmer Tech to become Smoak Industries_

_Former Head of Palmer Technologies, Felicity Smoak, to run Smoak Industries_

_From Queen Co. to Palmer Tech to Smoak Industries—An Evolution of an Empire_

Oliver’s smile widens as he reads article after article, more pride filling his bones with every word he reads. Of _course_ she's running her own company. It makes perfect sense.

Even more so, maybe that’s where Felicity is...work.

Though he hates the thought, he knows they’re not divorced because he's still wearing a ring and she's still in all their photos. He'd also imagine Rosie would be more upset by the mention of Felicity if she'd suddenly left without explanation.

Terror rips through him when he thinks of another scenario:  if she’d woken up to the same situation, in this some distant future, but alone and not knowing where she is. Does she know they’re married? Does she know about Rosie?

The thought is too much to think about, so he takes a break from the Internet to help Rosie down from the stool, then does the dishes as he thinks through the information he’s found so far. Incredibly, everything he’s learned hasn’t scared him yet. He still has _dozens_ of questions—like how they got together, if he’s still the Arrow, and how he ended up _here_ —but if this is his future...it’s not anything he wants to run away from.

As he goes to put the milk back in the fridge, he nearly drops it at the sight of what’s taped to the door.

 

_SAVE THE DATE_

_10.15.23_

_Thea & Roy _

 

Rubbing his eyes a few times, he tries to see if he’s imagining it, but the invitation type doesn’t change.

Incredibly, he doesn’t even care that his sister’s getting married—to Roy of all people. All he can focus on is one thing: she’s _alive_. He hadn’t even considered the alternative, but now that he sees her, the relief he feels is magnificent. Not only is she alive, but she looks happier than ever, thanks to the photo on the invitation. Roy is looking at the camera, but Thea only has eyes for her fiancé.

He blinks back tears because she looks so grown up and in love, and he feels another ache at the years he’s seemingly missed.

For the hundredth time since waking up, he’s on the brink of feeling too overwhelmed by everything and has to force himself in check. If he’s being honest, each minute that has passed has felt victorious, since Rosie has yet to freak out or notice anything different about him. (The last thing he wants is for her to feel scared in his presence. He’s actually stunned by how safe she seems under his care. It’s humbling.)

She hasn’t noticed his weirdness yet, so he’s at least not sucking at this dad thing—however crazy and unbelievable it may be.

Until she asks, “Can I please watch TV?”

Felicity has continually told him how incompetent he is when it comes to anything technological and he quickly realizes, as he walks into the family room, their television is no exception. The amount of remotes it has is _ridiculous_.

There are too many.

He looks wordlessly (and, okay, a little helplessly) at Rosie who easily takes over—though he gets another exasperated look as she flicks her curls out of where they’ve tangled in her glasses. She gives a very thorough orientation of how to turn on the TV, sounding impressively smart for her age, and mutters something about how she taught him _just yesterday_ and, “Daddy, why can’t you ever ‘member?”

He may have been knocked down a peg in his daughter’s book—who _clearly_ takes after her mother on all things IT—but he does take comfort in the fact that in all the years that have passed, at least one thing hasn’t changed about him.

A cartoon cat show is the first appropriate-looking program he finds, so once he gets a nod of approval from Rosie, he heads back over to the kitchen. From here, he can sit at the counter with the tablet and keep an eye on her all at once.

The sound of a phone vibrating against the counter grabs his attention before he can search anything again, and when he picks it up the word FELICITY reads across the screen. Relief runs through him at the thought of talking to her, and he answers it immediately. “He–hello?”

“Hi, babe. How’d you sleep?”

She sounds the same.

Of _course_ she sounds the same, he dumbly thinks. But there’s also a note of something different. Her tone is so casual, so certain, so... _normal_. Like they do this every day.

(He feels his breath catch when he remembers that, at least in this reality, they _do._ )

“Good, and you?” he asks, hating how formal and awkward he sounds, thanks to his nerves.

“Hm, better now. I miss our bed. And you.”

At that, heat curls in his stomach, low and sharp, and his heart beats wildly in his chest. To hear Felicity talk to him like this...it’s astonishing.

Last night she hadn’t even said those three words back to him, and now she’s saying things like _this._

“I…” he swallows, “I miss you, too.”

He can hear her smile through the phone. “Well my flight takes off soon, so it won’t be much longer. I land just before three, so I should be home by four, latest.”

To avoid sounding suspicious, he decides to keep his answers short, but he still can’t help but be honest with her. “Sounds good. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” she replies back warmly. “I know we talked about going out tonight, but can we stay in for dinner instead? Can you cook something easy? I’m sick of being anywhere but home with my two favorite people.”

“Sure,” he says, her words making him feel lightheaded. “I’ll cook...chicken parm.” It’s the first thing that comes to his mind, randomly, and he anxiously waits for approval.

It never comes.

“Felicity?”

“I’m still here...it’s just...you cooked that on Sunday before I left, remember?”

_Fuck._

“Sorry, um...I meant lasagna,” Oliver says quickly, wiping his sweaty palm on his pants and hoping she won’t think anything of it.

She’s still quiet, but finally asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Promise.”

“Okay,” she says, though she still sounds unsure. A second later she lets out a happy sigh. “Lasagna sounds _amazing_. I’m liking the Italian theme this week, mister.” The sound of a muffled loudspeaker comes through the phone. “Frack, that’s my flight. We’re starting to board. I’ll see you soon. Give Rosie a kiss for me, okay?”

“I will.”

“Thanks. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

It’s ridiculous how automatic his answer is. And just _insane_ that’s he’s said those words to her twice in 24 hours (kind of?) and that she’s said them back.

He needs to do something before his head explodes.

Like run.

Mind made up, he turns to walk into the family room. “Rosie, can you go upstairs and get dressed?”  He’s not sure if she needs help with that task, but considering she turned on the TV by herself, he’s hopeful this will be easy for her.

“Sure, Daddy,” she answers agreeably, clicking off the TV and racing upstairs. A surge of pride runs through him as he follows her lead. He doesn’t remember any moment of her upbringing—though he wishes he did with each moment that passes—but he and Felicity have surely raised one hell of a kid.

Back in his bedroom, he easily finds his closet but stops short in the doorway. Just the vision of his and Felicity’s clothes mixed together has his chest warming and head buzzing with shock again. Bright colorful dresses and skirts are hung in color-coordinated order on the right side, while his darker wardrobe is on the left. Her shoes are organized neatly on a few shelves, right below some purses, and he can’t stop smiling when he opens a drawer and notices his t-shirts mixed up in what looks to be her pajamas.

Rosie wanders in as he’s lacing up his sneakers and he grins at the pink dress she’s picked out. It’s totally something Felicity would buy, and he again feels like he’s looking at the miniature version of her mother.

His _wife._

(Oh my god.)

“Daddy, can you braid my hair?” she asks sweetly, giving him a look that can only be described as puppy dog eyes.

He’s known this girl for a few hours and she’s already wrapped so far around his finger he’s not sure how Future Oliver gets anything done. He _hates_ saying no to her. 

But he _cannot_ braid to save a life. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

“I’m sorry, Rosie, but I don’t know how to braid,” he tells her, apology lacing his tone.

“Yes, you do.”

Again, he feels annoyance flare about why he can’t remember anything. “How about pigtails? I like your hair in pigtails,” he tries to persuade, feeling at least semi-confident in being able to do that.

She thinks about it for a beat, but then agrees, “Okay!” before turning around to sit on the ground in front of him. His fingers feel too big and awkward, but he eventually parts her hair into two pieces, pulling them up into decent, albeit crooked, pigtails.

“Adorable” is not often in his vocabulary, but when she turns around and beams up at him in thanks, it’s the only word that comes to mind.

Ten minutes later he’s got her strapped into a running stroller with a book, snack, and a too-big baseball hat he found in the garage, since he didn’t know where the sunscreen was and that seemed like a bad dad move.

He’s not used to running while pushing a stroller, but he makes it halfway down the street before he eventually finding a jogging speed fast enough to make him sweat.

Their neighborhood is quaint and tree-lined, with evenly spaced houses that each look different from one another. Some neighbors wave at him as he passes, he sees some kids kicking around a ball in their front yard, and runs by a few friends walking their dogs. It’s looks to be the quintessential neighborhood, and can definitely understand why they chose to settle down here.

As he makes his way out of the street towards, he notices a block of stores in the distance and a sign that says _Ivy Town._  He’d wondered where they were—not wanting to ask Rosie—and feels some relief in knowing it’s not too far from Starling. It’s close enough for Felicity to commute into the city, but far enough to get some distance from the urban downtown.

He does a few loops around the block before making his way to the grocery store he’d seen. He’d promised lasagna and though he has no clue how to really make it, the idea of letting Felicity down on this small thing has him wanting to at least try.

Or pick up a frozen one.

That feeling, plus the vision of a sleeping Rosie, has him again reflecting on how much has changed in less than 24 hours. And how it happened.

Was he drugged? Or is his having some type of seizure that’s caused momentary memory loss? What if his memory doesn’t come back? How will he explain this to everyone?

Without waking her, he unstraps Rosie from the stroller and pushes it against the entrance of the store—hopefully no one will steal it?—before adjusting the girl so that she lays comfortably against his shoulder. It’s awkward, but he pushes a cart one-handed through the store, grabbing various items for lasagna.

Aside from the one mom-looking lady he’d asked for an easy lasagna recipe from, he doesn’t talk to anyone else, inwardly grateful he hasn’t run into anyone Future Oliver knows.

He makes it to through check-out and strapping Rosie back in before hearing an, “Oliver, buddy!”

“Fuck,” he mutters, turning around to greet the stranger. He looks to be a little older, but has a girl the same age and size as Rosie.

“Hey, man. Haven’t heard back from you yet. Any interest in Rosie joining soccer? I'm coordinating all the teams. It’ll be fun this year, right Molly?”

The girl gives a toothy grin before tucking herself behind her dad’s legs.

Oliver has bullshitted his way through countless QC meetings, so he channels his inner Ollie and does the same. “Sorry, things have been crazy lately with Felicity away. Let me chat with her and get back to you?” He flashes a smile at Molly.

The other guy waves him off. “No problem. I’ll email you info.”

“Great. Sorry, I gotta run. Don’t want her to wake up before she gets in another hour,” he says, nodding towards Rosie still asleep in the stroller.

As he runs back towards home, ignoring the jostling sound of the food he’d shoved in the pocket under Rosie’s seat, he thinks, _yeah..._ not happening. He's been a dad for all of a four hours, but the idea of big, hard soccer balls around Rosie is not okay.

The next few hours pass uneventfully. Luckily Rosie didn’t wake when he transferred her to her bed, so he takes advantage of her nap by making the lasagna. Once it’s in the oven, he tackles the crazy amount of dishes he’d dirtied while cooking before heading back upstairs. He makes the bed and showers, washing off the sweat his run and cooking had caused, and changes into a causal shirt and jeans before giving himself a full, more in-depth tour of the house. Even though he knows it’s his—or, at least, _Future_ Oliver’s house—he still feels like he’s trespassing, but he quickly shakes it off and makes his way down the hall.

The room next to Rosie’s is set up as an office, with two desks facing one another, and tech stuff _everywhere_. The three giant monitors make it easy to guess which one is Felicity’s desk, while his just has a closed laptop sitting on the surface. There’s no use in logging in, as his doesn’t know the password he created for himself, so he settles for studying the knick-knacks and photos placed on the bookshelves that line the perimeter of the room.

Just like the relief he felt when he’d seen Thea and Roy’s photo, he lets out a breath of consolation when he sees a picture of Dig, Lyla, and an older-looking Sara resting on one of the shelves. They look as happy and as in love as they are in Real Time.

His eyes scan the rest of the shelves, and when he sees a book spine with the numbers _5.15.18_ etched in the leather, he knows immediately what it is.

His hands shake as he makes his way to his desk.

Because of his Dearden and Queen roots, he’d always assumed he’d have a big wedding. Not that he really thought about it all that much, but he figured it’d be a flashy event.

In reality, it’s actually small. Just Lyla, Dig, Laurel, Sara, Thea, Roy, Donna, and Quentin. Flipping through the first few photos of their guests, everyone looks to be so happy together, and he’s glad they kept it to just their close family.

Another surprise—they got married at City Hall, but everything looked so simple and perfect, he can't imagine it anywhere else.

His breath catches at the first photo of Felicity. She didn’t wear pure white, but instead a classic, ivory satin dress. The neckline was swooped and boat-like, with simple off-shoulder sleeves, and fabric that fit her skin like a glove. The hem stopped just above her knees and had a low back that displayed so much of her skin his hand aches to touch it. She went without a veil, settling instead for a messy, but styled low bun, accented by a crystal brooch. Her flowers were pink ranunculus.

She looked stunning. And looking at himself in the photos, in a simple gray suit, he can see that nothing much has changed. His younger self could barely take his eyes off of her.

They look positively euphoric in every photo, and so in love it makes his heart stop. There’s photos of them laughing, dancing, kissing, and a few of them crying. The final photo is his favorite though. They’re walking down the steps of City Hall, hand-in-hand down an aisle outlined by their friends on either side. It’s a candid shot, capturing their radiant faces smiling with joy at one another, as colorful confetti floats around them. It’s perfect.

“Daddy?”

Rosie walks around the corner, looking rumbled from sleep, with pillow lines on her rosy cheeks and pigtails askew. She looks absolutely adorable, and he can’t help but press a soft kiss to her cheek as he picks her up.

“Hi sweetheart,” he says, the affectionate name slipping out without thought. “Did you have a nice nap?”

“Yes,” she says through a yawn, laying her head on his shoulder and still obviously waking up. “Is mama home yet?”

He rubs her back. “Not yet. Soon, though. Are you hungry?”

He feels her nod against his shoulder, so once they head downstairs, he feeds her a mismatched late lunch of some grapes and a PB&J, before letting her go off to play with some dolls and a rocket ship toy on the family room floor. He, again, feels a bout of pride at her independence and creativity. She hasn’t touched her tablet all day, and besides the quick few minutes where she’d watched TV, she’d been in her own little Rosie world.

With each minute that passes, he’s closer to seeing Felicity, and he feels an equal mix of nerves and excitement. She’s always been able to read him like a book—more so than anyone else in his life—so he’s more fearful that it’ll take her five seconds to notice that something is off about him.

How would he even explain it to her?

At 4pm, _finally_ , he hears the door open.

“Hellooo!” she calls from the front entry.

At the sound of her voice, Rosie drops her dolls and runs to greet her around the corner, out of sight. He doesn’t know why, but he stays rooted in place, instead choosing to listen to Felicity greet their daughter. Rosie talks a mile a minute, telling her mother _everything_ that’s happened while she’s been gone, not excluding parts that make Oliver cringe to himself. “...And we went to the park... and then we colored...and then Daddy forgot how to turn on the TV, mama! _Again!”_

Felicity’s chuckle floats around the corner. “He did? Oh man. Daddy just hates how many remotes there are.”

“I know, mama, but it’s so easy!”

“Ok, well maybe we’ll need to write down directions for him. But, _my my_ Rosie Posie, have you grown since I’ve been gone? Pretty soon I won’t be able to pick you up anymore!” she says, right before she comes around the corner and into the kitchen. Oliver notes the tease in her tone—Rosie is _tiny_ , and so even if though Felicity is small herself, their daughter still looks so little in her arms.

They barely notice him when they walk into the room, and he’s grateful for that. Because he’s rendered totally speechless at the sight of them—his two girls. Even that phrase, _his girls,_ has his hand unconsciously coming up to cover his heart. And then when Felicity looks over at him and smiles, he swears it actually _stops._

She’s even more beautiful than he remembered.

“Oh and we went to the library!” Rosie exclaims, missing the _r_ in the word and making Oliver smile all too easily. “We got three new books! They’re in my room!” She slides out of Felicity's arms, rushing off to her room, so quickly that it takes him a moment for his brain to catch up. Felicity laughs and shakes her head, brushing nonexistent loose curls away from her face before sweeping her hand down to her stomach.

Her _rounded_ stomach.

Something Rosie had hidden just moments before when she was in her arms. But her tight cotton dress does nothing to hide it anymore.

He’s shocked still, his eyes focused solely on her midsection, and he definitely stops breathing again. He doesn’t know how long he’s frozen in place, but her laugh shakes him out of his reverie. “Ugh, I _know._ I totally popped while I was gone. Literally, _three_ days ago I just looked like I’d eaten a double Big Belly burger, and then I wake up today and…” She gestures to her stomach, before smoothing her hands over it softly. She does it a few times, a seemingly natural habit, before pressing her right hand to the small of her back. She twists a little, stretching her muscles, and he notices her eyes flinch in discomfort.

Alarmed, he takes a step towards her. He hasn’t touched her yet, hasn’t figured out how they act together in this future, but the need to comfort her, to take care of her, it spans any time realm. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

She rolls her eyes endearingly, a smile playing on her lips. “Two things. One: plane travel. My back is just tight—it’s not baby related. Second: you.”

“Me?”

Fuck, he’s already screwed up. She’s figured it out.

“Yeah. I’ve been home, what, three minutes? And you haven’t kissed me hello yet.”

Before he can move, she comes to him, wrapping her arms around to his back, melting so quickly and deeply into his embrace he can’t help but pull her closer.

“I’m so happy to be back,” she mumbles into his collarbone, her lips and breath tickling his neck. She’s so close, he’s worried she can hear his heartbeat.

Leaning back, she stands up on her toes and takes his face in her hands. “Hi,” she says, before kissing him softly.

It’s not hesitant or new, but familiar and sound. Wrapping his arms around her back, he pulls her close again to deepen the kiss, reveling in the feeling of her tongue dancing with his.

He almost forgets how he got here, how there are hundreds of unresolved questions still; because the feeling of being here, with her, in this moment, seems like answer enough.

He reaches up to cup her cheek when she punctuates the kiss with a few soft pecks, as if she can’t seem to stop. She hums in contentment. “I missed doing that too,” she says, pressing her lips to his one last time.

He’s still in a daze, but panic rears its ugly head when he realizes he has no idea where she was. Was she away for work? Visiting her mom? Friends?

Felicity’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “It smells so good in here,” she says, wandering over to the fridge and opening it to search for something.

“Thanks...it’s the lasagna,” he replies, watching her carefully. He clears his throat. “How was your trip?”

She pulls out a bowl of grapes, rests it on the island between them, and pops one in her mouth. “Good. It was nice to be back on my old stomping grounds. It was kind of fun to not have a business trip for once…though I have about a hundred unread emails waiting in my inbox. The students asked good questions, so I think they got something out of it. I can’t believe my favorite professor is still there teaching.”

She’s making this incredibly easy for him, answering all his questions without him needing to ask. Just from that bit, he know she was in Boston, visiting a class at MIT.

“I should be used to giving presentations by now—you know with me being, um, CEO of a _major_ company and everything—but I still get so nervous every single time. And I always make some weird inadvertent inappropriate joke.” She shakes her head to get rid of the thought. “We’ll have to take Rosie there soon. It was too quick for this trip, since we’d have to come right back for the party tomorrow night, but we’ll have to take her to a Red Sox game or something.” Before he can say anything back, she makes an excited sound, and holds up a finger. “Oh, I got the cutest thing. Hang on.”

She disappears around to the front hall and is back in under a minute, holding up the _tiniest_ onesie with the Red Sox logo on the front.

“How cuuute? I can’t believe we didn’t have one of these for Ro.” She passes it to him, so he has no choice but to take it.

His heart is doing that thing again, where it feels too big for his body. He rubs the fabric softly. “It’s so small,” he notes quietly.

“I know. So wild that Rosie was ever that little. Where did she go, by the way? I expected her to bombard me with library books.” She looks off towards the front hall and staircase. “Mind bringing up my bag? I want to shower before dinner.”

“Yes, of course,” he answers quickly, which earns him a weird look from her. Again, he sounds way too formal and nervous, and so he presses his hand to the small of her back as they walk together to ease her skepticism. It seems to do the trick, and since he remembers her aching muscles, takes the opportunity to rub his hand up and down her skin. By the way she leans more into his embrace he knows she’s grateful for the little massage, and makes a mental note to do it more purposefully later when they’re not walking up to find their daughter.

After a quick peek in Rosie’s room, where they find her thumbing quietly through her new books, they make their way to their bedroom. He places her suitcase on the upholstered stool in their closet, so she doesn’t have to bend down to unpack everything, and turns around at the sound of the shower starting.

“Honey?”

A thrill runs through him at the endearment. “Y–yes?”

“Can you bring me my razor? It’s in the small pocket in my suitcase.”

“Sure,” he answers, finding it quickly and walking towards the bathroom. He stops short at the view of the shower. The frosted glass portrays the outline of her body, her shadow showing her arms washing shampoo out of her hair. He’s never seen her naked before, but they’re _married_. This is normal. The idea that she is used to him seeing her like this, without clothes on (and that he does so regularly) is unbelievable.

He knocks on the glass door and she opens it immediately. There’s a lot of steam, but not enough to hide anything. He catches sight at her wet shoulders and—he swallows thickly—her breasts and forces himself _not_ to look away, since he’s certain she’d notice.

She smiles and (unsuccessfully) winks, “Thanks,” then shuts the door all too quickly. “So what else happened while I was gone? I got the _very important_ highlights from Ro, but I’m sure your version is a _bit_ more interesting.” Her chuckle echoes off the tile.

Facing the shower, he leans against the double sinks and rubs his jaw. “Nothing too exciting. We stayed close to home most of the time.” He can’t go into more detail than that, so he veers the conversation to a new topic. “By the way, I ran into...Molly’s dad...at the grocery store.”

“Oh, Peter?”

“Yeah, Peter,” he confirms, not really knowing, but assuming that’s the guy. “He asked if Rosie was going to join the soccer team? I said I’d talk to you first, but...I don’t know. I don’t think she’s old enough.”

She lets out a laugh. “Yes she is!”

“...no, she’s too young. It’s too dangerous.” He crosses his arms in defense, even though she can’t see him.

“Too dangerous? That’s rich coming from a guy who used to be a vigilante, Mr. _Arrow._ ”

Used to? So he isn’t the Arrow anymore?

He doesn’t react to that, though, too concerned with where this conversation is heading. “Do you know how hard soccer balls are? They give people concussions!”

A scoff bounces off the walls. “You can’t protect her from everything! Besides, Peter already emailed me this afternoon and I signed her up. And you as coach.” The water turns off as she finishes her sentence, and before he can prepare himself, she steps out to grab her towel.

The timing of what she’s just told him is convenient, as her suddenly nude form has rendered him speechless enough for her to assume it's because of what she said.

Her words don't even register.

He is, once again, completely struck. Her face is flushed from heat and free of makeup, her hair knotted and wet, but all he can focus on is how utterly perfect she is. Every part of her is smooth and fit, aside from the slight, but still very noticeable swelling in her otherwise toned stomach. She is a vision, and seeing her like this—in her purest form—feels like a privilege.

Her cheeks flush when she notices his gaze. “Did you even hear what I just said, coach? Or were you too busy staring?” she asks, lips twisting with a flattered, knowing smile.

“Sorry, it’s just…you look beautiful.” And then it clicks. “Wait...coach?!”

She kisses him quickly before he can protest any further. “Yes. _Coach,_ ” and sways her hips as she walks away.

**.**

The lasagna turns out better than expected, but he’s grateful for the salad and baguette he decides to round out the meal with to distract from any major scrutinization. (She could barely help put together the salad, so it’s obvious he’s the cook in the family.) Since it’s summer and still warm, they eat outside on the back deck.

Rosie doesn’t stop talking the entire time, literally giving them _every_ detail of the book she’d been reading upstairs, and they both have to probe her to finish her dinner. It’s the first act of parenting he’s done with her, and though it’s small and relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things, he revels in it.

“Hey, Ro,” Felicity says, tearing a piece of bread into smaller pieces for their daughter, “Guess what’s tomorrow?"

Rosie thinks as she swallows a bite. “What?”

“Sara’s birthday party.”

Her entire face lights up. “It _is?!_ ”

“Yeah. We have to wrap her present in the morning, okay?”

“Okay! Can we use a pink bow?”

Felicity laughs warmly. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“Yay!”

“Alright, kiddo, go run around the yard a few times. Then bath, books, and bed.”

“Okay, mama!” she replies, dashing off the deck and to the grass.

They sit in comfortable silence as they watch her run around for a bit, twirling in her dress and trying to catch the few lightening bugs flying around. Felicity's fingers tangle with his on the table, and he can honestly say he’s never been more content in his life then sitting here with her, watching their daughter play in their backyard. It’s so simple and far from any stretch of reality he’s ever known. He can easily imagine Thea and Roy, Dig and Lyla, even Laurel, sitting around the rest of the table, watching Sara and Rosie chase each other in the grass on late summer nights.

The fact that he wants this so much stuns him.

“Alright,” she says after a while. “Let me get this crazy girl upstairs before she crashes. You do the dishes, I’ll do the bath. You’ve done it every night this week and it’s my turn.” The way she says it makes it apparent that she’s not keeping score—she just _really_ wants to give her daughter a bath. He’d never pictured her as a mother. Not because he didn’t think she make a good one, but because the thought of her having a family with someone else...it was too painful.

Working full-time while also being a mom is no small task, and yet she seems to do it effortlessly. She’s barely talked about work since she’s been home, her focus solely on their family. As she calls Rosie back to the deck and gathers her up in her arms to cover her in kisses, it blows him away at how naturally wonderful she is at this, and he’s so honored to not only witness it, but to share in it together.

He starts to gather the dishes to bring them inside, but she catches his arm before he walks away, pulling him down for a kiss. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Of course,” he says back softly.

Once the dishes are cleared and everything is in the dishwasher, he’s able to catch the last few minutes of bath time, which is best described as controlled madness. Felicity is soaked but doesn’t seem to mind, and Rosie has about twenty toys in the water.  She whines a little when it’s time to get out, but when Felicity promises three books instead of two for story time, she nearly leaps out of the tub. The little pink towel she’s wrapped in has bunny ears on it, and a peel of laughter sounds from Rosie when Felicity uses a tickling method to dry her off.

The whole thing exhausts him in the best way—from brushing her wet curls to changing her into pajamas to reading the four books she’d gotten out of them—and by the time they both kiss their drowsy girl goodnight, he’s almost ready for bed himself. But knowing he’ll be alone with Felicity for the rest of the night has a jolt of energy running through him.

Once they know Rosie’s out, they head back downstairs and settle together on the couch in the family room. They’re barely seated for a minute before she says, “Hey,” actively grabbing his attention. She doesn’t say anything else, but just takes his hand and guides it towards her stomach. He wants to pull away, the action still seeming too intimate, but before he can, she’s pressed it against herself. A few beats pass, his heart practically tripping over itself, before he feels a small nudge.

His eyes snap to hers. She must not see how terrified or caught off guard he looks, because she’s _beaming_. “So cool, right? I totally forgot how much I love this part.” She guides his hand over to the side, searching for more movement. “I felt it for the first time on Sunday. I was missing you two and this one must have known, because she—or he, I guess—announced its presence.” There’s another few notes of silence before she continues, “I guess because I’m carrying higher than last time you can feel it sooner. Remember you nearly _died_ of jealousy since you weren’t able to feel Rosie for, like, a _week_ after I could? You totally pouted for days.”

He doesn’t remember, (god how he wants to remember), but this is an easy thing to dispute. “I did not pout. I _don’t_ pout.”

She shifts her body away a little bit and arches a brow, smirking pointedly at his face because...oh. He’s pouting.

(Again.)

She laughs softly and leans over to kiss it away, still holding his hand to her stomach. He looks down once he sits back against the couch and feels his eyes sting at the sight. He hadn’t noticed before, but adorning her left hand is his mother’s engagement ring. That, accompanied with a diamond wedding band, has him feeling so many emotions he can’t settle on one first. The fact that she’s wearing them make him miss his mother, but it’s also such obvious physical proof that they’re married and belong to each other. Without thinking, he takes his thumb and touches the rings gently, making them clink softly against each other.

She notices the gesture and smiles. “You know...I know you and your mother had a complicated relationship, and I didn’t get the chance to know her that well, but I look down and admire her ring every day and feel so thankful that I’m connected to her in this small way.”

Since arriving home, she’s initiated every kiss, but at her words he can’t help but pull her close and press his lips to her’s soundly.

How could he have known how much he’d love her? How could he have held himself back this long?

This life they’ve built together is so strong, so sacred, so significant...and yet he’s only lived it for a day.

They just sit in the living room, her curled up against him, while she flips through the channels. She stops once it switches to the Food Network before picking up her tablet and tapping away at the screen. There’s an ease with everything she does with him—almost like a ritual. It’s easy to imagine this is what they do every night after Rosie goes to bed. He half pays attention to the show, more focused on the feeling and the fact that she’s here, in his arms, (that they are married with one kid and another on the way), but his attention snaps back to the TV when she makes a humming sound and drops a hand high on his inner thigh. He nearly jumps at the contact.

“You _have_ to learn to make that,” she moans. It’s some sort of chocolate soufflé with powdered sugar sifted over the top of it, and though he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, he can’t help but agree that it looks delicious. “If I look like this now at seventeen weeks, I cannot _imagine_ what I’ll look like in five months. Seriously, this kid is all about sugar.”

She doesn’t say anything else, and he’s not sure where it comes from, but he suddenly asks, “Would you...like some ice cream?” It seems like a husbandly thing to ask when your pregnant wife is practically salivating while talking about sweets.

She tilts her head up and kisses a spot under his chin, nose scrunching when she skims his scruff. “I knew I married you for a reason.”

“Also,” he starts to say earnestly, “you look perfect.” He keeps his eyes locked with her’s so it sinks in.

She squeezes his hand, unspoken gratitude on her lips, before he gets up and makes his way to the freezer.

The sound of the TV turning off surprises him, and he hears her pad into the kitchen behind him. “Can you bring that upstairs? I want to eat it in bed.”

“Sure, I’ll meet you up there.”

She’s in her pajamas by the time he makes it to their room, having shed the casual dress she’d put on after her shower for one of his old t-shirts. She settles into bed and takes the ice cream from him happily, taking a big bite before he even walks away. “Ugh. This is so good. And with extra chocolate chips? Thank you.”

He leaves her and her ice cream in peace as he changes into his pajamas. He stands awkwardly in his closet for a solid three minutes, debating on briefs or those flannel pants again, shirt or no shirt, before deciding on the briefs/t-shirt combination.

But then he reminds himself that he’s her husband and she’s his wife. They’re _married_. He can wear whatever the hell he wants. So he takes off the shirt, brushes his teeth, and walks back over to the bed.

Ice cream already finished, and bowl on the side table, she slides over to his side like she can’t help herself and presses the length of her body next to his. Running her hands down his chest, she purrs in contentment, placing a trail of kisses up his abs, to his collarbone, to his neck, before finally capturing his lips. She tastes like mint and chocolate and he can’t get enough. He pulls her on top of him as he deepens the kiss, and she acquiesces easily, canting her hips down into his and causing them both to groan from the pressure.

She pulls away after a few moments. “I really want to have sex with you, because it’s all I’ve thought about for three days, but I’m so tired I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep.”

He laughs lowly at that, kissing her for her honesty and because he wants to. “That’s fine.”

“But let's keep making out,” she says quickly, leaning down again. She’s a total tease, torturing him in the best way possible by rocking on top of him until they both feel him harden beneath her. He can’t help himself, though, nor does he feel sorry—especially after seeing how affected she is as well. He takes his time finding all of her weak spots on her neck, memorizing the gasps and sighs she lets out each time he unearths them.

After a while she rolls off of him, curling up to his side and resting her head on his chest. She softly trails her fingers up and down his skin, the action so calming, he can’t help but close his eyes.

She breaks the silence. “I feel like you’re not telling me something. You seem different today.”

His heart drops as he opens his eyes.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t...I don’t know.” She seems hesitant and almost uncomfortable, even as she burrows closer, and the idea breaks his heart. He never wants to make her feel this way. “It’s something in your eyes. I can’t pinpoint it.”

She picks her head up to look at him seriously. “I hope I don’t need to remind you, my dear husband, that there’s nothing you can say to me that will make me love you any less. Nothing will scare me away, I promise.” The adoration and trust in her tone takes the breath out of him, the weight of her words almost forcing his eyes to close again from the impact. Her fingers poke his chest before tapping the top of his head. “I just want to know what’s going on inside here.”

“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to worry you.” He lets out a breath and decides to tell her the partial truth. “I just...woke up today feeling a little off. I don’t know what it is, but it has nothing to do with you, or Rosie, or...our life. I guess I just woke up and felt overwhelmed by all that has changed over the years. I think back to the guy before I met you, and those first few years after, and I can’t believe I’m the same person.”

“I know.”

“It was just on my mind today, that’s all. None of it was regret or fear. It just took up a lot of my headspace. I’m okay, I promise.”

She studies him for a moment before conceding. “Okay. But if it continues bothering you, you’ll talk to me, right?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Good.” She kisses him again. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says back, never meaning the words more. After slipping out of bed to brush her teeth and turn off the lights, she settles back down beside him again, continuing the calming patterns her fingers were drawing on his chest before. It doesn’t take long for the movement to stop and for her to fall asleep, and once she does he tries to keep his eyes open as long as he can. 

He doesn’t want to fall asleep. What if it's all gone tomorrow? He doesn’t want this to end—this perfect, beautiful day, where everything was different and challenging and yet so _right._

He likes thinking about his _girls_ and what he should make for dinner. He likes watching Rosie color at the counter and play with her dolls on the floor. He likes that Felicity greets them like she knows they’re waiting for her. He likes how she curled up next to him on the couch and shoved her cold feet between his without thinking. He likes this, them, their family, this _future._

He fights it as long as he can, but the feeling of Felicity wrapped around him, in their bed, in their house, eventually forces him under.

**.**

...and then he wakes up.

No Felicity, no Rosie, no Dig, no Roy, no Thea, no Ra’s, no Malcolm, no lair. 

He’s never been in more pain.

Not from his wound, even though it hurts like a crazy, but because _it was a dream._

It was all a dream. None of it was real.

As he finally comes to, he realizes he's not laying in the snow where he'd fallen, but rather beside a roaring fire, in what looks to be a secluded cabin in snowy woods.

He struggles to sit up and stand, his entire body searing with pain, but somehow manages to limp over and lean against a wall a few feet away.

“Oliver.” Tatsu rushes over to him, though carefully so she doesn't spill the medicine she’s holding. “Drink this.”

“More herbs?”

“Penicillin. For the infection.”

He drinks it, and cringes at the taste. Gratefully, he says, “You saved my life.”

“The snow and cold helped,” she reasons honestly. “And your will to live. You should be dead.”

He staggers a breath and uses all his energy to keep standing. “I have to get back to Starling.”

She shakes her head immediately. “You’re too weak; you won’t make it. If not for infection, but because of the League. It won’t be long until they know you’re here—it’s not safe.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oliver—” She’s interrupted by the door swinging open. Cold air bursts in the room with Maseo’s entrance, and she waits until the door is shut before continuing. “Please, stay just a few more days. You have to rest.”

It seems too long, but considering how exhausting it’s been to stand for five minutes, he knows he won't make it home easily.

The days pass in a blur of agony. Tatsu continues watching over him, testing different herbs and balms on his injuries to get him back to stable health.

But each minute is _torture_. He’s weak and has no idea where Ra’s is, but the only thought that consumes his mind is the fact that he has to get back to the team. _Has_ to get back to Thea. _Has_ to get back to Felicity. He was wrong—he can’t do any of this alone. If he learned anything from the dream, it’s that he needs to surround himself with the people he loves most.

And, most importantly, he needs _her._

(The hardest part, though, is Rosie—that she was just a figment of imagination. The idea that she’s not real causes so much grief and heartbreak, he finds himself struggling for breath multiple times a day. He’d fallen completely in love with her, utterly reeled under her adorable spell. To live in a world where she doesn't exist seems incomprehensible.)

In between recovery and long silences throughout the days, Tatsu had advised him to train under a master of swords, since she's sure it’s the only way to beat Ra’s. After promising to do just that, they finally and regretfully allow to his departure, sending him off with fresh wraps and medicine to continue treatment during the journey. 

He tightens his backpack at the door. “Thank you for everything,” he says, nodding to them both. It’s true—if they hadn’t both saved him, he’d never have the chance to go back and make things right. “I hope you both stay safe.” 

"Same to you," Maseo replies.

Though they’d given him constant protection since they’d found him, he still feels no regret leaving the cabin.

It’s time to go home.

**.**

The lair steps barely make a sound as he desends down them to the basement. He doesn’t know who’s there, but he still makes his way around the corner quickly and purposefully.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come by sooner,” he announces by way of greeting.

He doesn't even notice Dig and Roy's reactions, their stunned faces fading to the background. He only has eyes for the woman sitting in the chair in between them. At the sight of him, she twists around and is out of it in a split second, crossing the room to crash him into a hug.

It _hurts_ , his body silently screaming in pain, but he doesn’t care. He can’t waste any more time. He pushes her away gently to take her hands.

“I need to talk to you.”

She ignores him, scanning his entire body to search for any injury. “Are you okay? Where were you? What happened with Ra’s?”

“I’m okay. I’ll explain everything after.”

Dig takes a step closer. “Merlyn told us you were killed.”

“I was close,” he answers, eyes still locked on Felicity. He lowers his voice. “I need to talk to you. _Please._ ”

His eyes are pleading, and she must take notice, because she gives a slight nod and lets him pull her to the far corner of the room. Dig and Roy sense his need for privacy, so they make themselves scarce as he grapples with what to tell her first.

“After I was stabbed—"

He’s cut off by a choking sound. “You were _stabbed?!_ ”

Squeezing her hand, he reassures her again, “I’m okay, I promise. But after Ra’s stabbed me, I fell over a...cliff…”—her eyes go wide again—“and was knocked out for a while. I don’t remember much but I...I had this crazy dream.”

She shakes her head. “No offense, Oliver, but I don’t care about the dream you had after you were _stabbed._ Stabbed! And then fell off a _cliff...?!_ ” Her voice sounds panicked.

He closes his eyes, taking a moment to gather courage to continue. “It wasn’t just a dream though. I thought it was real. I thought I’d woken up in the future.” He takes a breath. “It’s going to sound crazy, but...it was eight years in the future. We were married and had a daughter. You were pregnant with our second baby. We lived in this perfect house in Ivy Town. You ran your own company, and I stayed home with our daughter. Roy and Thea were getting married, and Dig and Lyla were still crazy about each other. I wasn’t the Arrow anymore, and...I was okay with it."

He pulls her closer. “I thought I’d been put in some time machine and sent to the future. I woke up in this new bed, in our house, with no memory of anything other than the stabbing.”

Letting out a long sigh, he meets her eyes. “It was so vivid and real. You were... _so beautiful._ I didn’t think you could be any more beautiful than you are, but you were. When I woke up, I was so confused about why I couldn’t remember anything and how I got there, but the longer the day went on, the more I realized I didn’t care. I’d never felt that...happy. I went to bed, afraid it would end but _so_ hopeful that it wouldn’t...and then it did. I woke up and it was all gone.”

At a loss for words, she closes her eyes. “Oliver…”

“I know it sounds insane. I know, but...it was _real._ We had this amazing daughter. She looked just like you and had curly hair and glasses. She couldn’t say the word ‘library’ correctly and had to teach me how to turn on the TV.”

At that, Felicity lets out a watery laugh. “You are hopeless when it comes to technology.”

“I know,” he says, running his thumb down her cheek. “She was extraordinary. We had the most amazing life.”

The look on her face is emotional; tears are brimming her eyes and she looks to be in disbelief with what she's hearing.

“I want it all with you. My last words before I left were ‘I love you,’ and I mean them even more today than I did then. I want a life with you, and I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to figure it out.”

She swallows thickly. “I...I don’t know what to say.” Closing her eyes, she leans her forehead against his and takes a stuttered breath. “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. “I love you too much to go through that again.”

The only time he’s heard those words from her was in the dream, and his heart soars at the chance to hear them in reality. 

“I love you so much,” she says again, leaning up to kiss him.

It’s better than the one they shared in their kitchen, and in their bathroom, and on their porch, and on their couch, and on their bed—because he knows when he wakes up tomorrow, none of this will be gone.

“I still need to see Thea, and find Ra’s and Merlyn, but...can I take you to dinner?”

She smiles happily and kisses him softly again, simply because she can. “Yes.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

As she thinks over her answer, she leans her nose against his shoulder to breathe him in, as if proving to herself that he's there. “Hmm...how about...lasagna?”

**.**

**.**

(Years later, they do marry at City Hall, have a little girl named Rosie and a second named Jane. Felicity runs Smoak Industries, the Diggles continue to be happy, and his sister eventually marries Roy. In some bittersweet twist of fate, Sara actually lives and Laurel dies, and the world still faces villains and battles it doesn’t deserve. There are some differences, though. Like how how he coaches his daughter’s basketball team, not soccer, and the fact that Rosie doesn’t end up being allergic to blueberries. They also decide to live in the Queen Mansion, after making it their own and, if possible, he loves Felicity even _more_ than he thought he ever could. So it doesn’t turn out exactly as he’d dreamed.

It’s better.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for much for reading. I always appreciate comments, if you're so inclined to leave one. I hope you enjoyed it! (Ps. I'm on tumblr under the same username. I don't really post a ton of fandom stuff, but I do follow along!)


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